Nebraska Center for Writers

MY FATHER AT TWENTY-NINE
by Dwaine Spieker

In the denim of dawn,
he sat at his end of the kitchen table
to buckle his workboots.

Leaning forward,
his back was a pasture of muscle
as the sun broke over it.

Already, this early,
he carried the sky.

Reprinted with permission
from Prairie Schooner
Copyright © Spring 2006
by Dwaine Spieker


IN MEDIAS RES
by Dwaine Spieker


The cardinal landed
and said:

There is no beginning,
only the point at which
you began to pay attention.

Reprinted with permission
from Prairie Schooner
Copyright © Spring 2006
by Dwaine Spieker


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